The Hunger Games: The Lost Scenes
by bluedolls
Summary: What happened when Peeta told Haymitch that he wanted to be coached alone, or when he first realized his leg was gone? This is a growing collection of missing scenes from The Hunger Games. Got a request? Let me know.
1. Peeta asks to be coached alone

**This is a growing collection of missing scenes from The Hunger Games. Each chapter stands alone, not necessarily in chronological order.** **Feel free to leave any suggestions for missing scenes in the reviews!**

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><p>"To what do I owe this pleasure?" Haymitch slurs and collapses into the chair across from me at the other side of the table, clutching the table cloth for support. For a second, I think he's going to pull the whole thing off and send dishes crashing to the ground. I decide to ignore the fact that he is drunk and get to the point.<p>

"I've changed my mind. I want to be coached alone," I tell him.

"Alone." He pauses for a moment, mulling over this turn of events. He absentmindedly picks up an orange from the chilled tureen between us and rolls it in his hands.

"So then, you've seen sense—realized the girl could kill you with her eyes closed. Better to keep your strengths quiet if you hope to stand a chance—"

"No," I interrupt. "I mean yes, she could. But no, that isn't why I changed my mind. I don't want to save myself; I want to save _her_."

Haymitch guffaws at my declaration as though I've told a joke, when in fact it's the least comical situation I can imagine.

"If you can't beat 'em, join 'em, eh?" he says. "If she wins, then District Twelve still houses the victor, and your family will still be provided for. How noble of you." Haymitch says.

I'm not sure how much to tell him, so I settle for "Something like that, Haymitch."

He puts the orange down on the table and eyes me through the drunken haze that perpetually clouds his vision and his mind.

"So you'll help me?" I ask before he has a chance to voice the curiosity I can see in the look on his face.

"That's what I'm here for, or so they tell me. Of course Katniss can't know. She would never have it."

"That's why I'm asking to be coached alone. She would probably shoot me before agreeing to let me protect her." It's just a saying back home, and it feels strange to mean it literally.

"And you would let her, wouldn't you?" Haymitch accuses. "Tell me something, Peeta. Suppose I help you with this. Suppose the two of us somehow keep her alive. Suppose we're so successful that it comes down to the two of you in the arena. You would still let her shoot you, wouldn't you?" he asks.

"Yes," I admit without hesitation. He looks at me with such intensity that I begin to doubt some of his drunken displays. I don't doubt that he's drunk—the smell is proof enough. But I wonder if maybe sometimes he plays it up, makes himself appear just aloof enough to stand outside of anything real. Just aloof enough to ignore the things he doesn't want to see.

When he doesn't say anything, I elaborate.

"I can't kill her, no matter the situation. I want to make sure that no one else does either." I tell this to a sweet roll on my plate more than I tell it to Haymitch.

"Does she know?" he asks.

"That I want to protect her? No, of course not." I say, but I know that isn't what he means.

"That you can't live without her," he corrects.

"No. We never even spoke until the day of the reaping, and I think the one thing Katniss can't do is see the effect she has on people." True, we aren't friends, but I've seen the way people look at her in town, the way other guys at school see her. She never looks back at anyone. Especially not me.

"Let's just hope she can have the same effect on the crowd at the interview. You two have already made a strong impression with the flaming get-up, and now with the training scores. If she could win the audience over, earn some good sponsors—she just might stand a chance," Haymitch says.

Unfortunately, Katniss has never seemed interested in winning anyone over, much less a crowd of people that will be cheering on her death. The way she looked at me when I waved on the train as we pulled into the capitol tells me she isn't interested in keeping up appearances.

"So when you coach her, you'll teach her how to win over the audience?" I ask.

"I'll try. If I can get her to open up, to appear more human and likeable to the audience, they'll form an attachment and want to keep her." I can almost hear him add "_Just like you do_," but he has sense enough to leave it unsaid. But it makes me think—how can I make the audience see her as I do?

Haymitch takes out a flask and adds something to the reddish juice he hasn't touched, then takes a gulp.

"So, Romeo, what else have you got in mind?" he asks.

That's when the idea hits me. Romeo and Juliet. The star-crossed lovers destined to be together, but doomed by fate. The story is ancient, but people still eat it up. Being from District 12, I've never read it myself, but I know the gist. I imagine a teary-eyed audience of capitol citizens watching the play, wishing there was some way the lovers could have survived. We can't both survive in this story, but I don't need the happy ending. I just need the audience's sympathy for Katniss.

"Haymitch, what would happen if the audience knew about my feelings for her?" It's absurd, but then so are the Games, and it's not like I will ever have a chance to tell her myself, not now. I immediately know that such a move would garner sympathy for me, and for a moment, I think about how it would help me survive. Then I remember that surviving without Katniss wouldn't be surviving at all.

"That sounds like a better way to help yourself, not Katniss, loverboy." Haymitch comments and takes another gulp. "Not to mention the other tributes will target you as the sap that you are and think you're easy pickings."

"I'm thinking something more along the lines of the power of suggestion. You know she won't sell herself as desirable. She doesn't even know that she is. But if I can do that for her, maybe the audience will see it, too. And if they pity me for it and want to keep me alive longer, that's more time I have to protect her myself."

It's the best I can come up with, and it just might work, but I hate the idea of putting my feelings for her on public display, selling them in hopes of getting a bit of bread or supplies. I know Katniss will hate me for it, too, but it's a risk worth taking if it keeps her alive.

"So, what do you think?" I ask, picking up the orange Haymitch has abandoned and rolling it in my hands.

"I think Katniss will kill you if you do it, figuratively speaking of course," he grins at the awful joke. "But you do have one thing going for you," he says.

"What's that?" I ask.

"The male tribute of District 12 always goes last. You'll have the final word," Haymitch explains.

Suddenly, I'm squeezing the orange so hard that the juice drips from my fingers onto the white table cloth. I'm surprised to see that instead of orange, red drops flow like blood from between my hands. The irony isn't lost on me, and I know that if I indeed have the final say, Katniss Everdeen will survive.

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><p><em>Confession: I don't think it really would have played out this way, simply because in the book Peeta seems upsetconfused when he finds out that Haymitch has sent Katniss multiple gifts from the sponsors, but has sent none to help Peeta. If he had really struck a deal with him to protect Katniss before the Games, Haymitch's choice to send Katniss all of the supplies would have lined up perfectly with the deal. Still, it's interesting to imagine how this private session would have gone and what thought process led Peeta to admit his feelings on air. _


	2. Peeta discovers his leg is gone

When I come to, I'm not entirely sure where I am. All I know is that I've been sleeping a long time and my head seems foggy. I risk opening my eyes, unsure of why I'm hesitant but knowing that odds are I'm not going to like what I see.

There is a lot of white in this room. White walls barren of any décor, and to my right, a window covered with white blinds that must thinly veil a white hallway just outside. A splash of color, any color, would be better than this blankness. The linens on the bed, too, are white.

It's been so long since I have slept in a bed.

And that's when I remember. The Hunger Games. Katniss. Cato, Thresh, the muttations, starving and lying in the mud, counting the seconds down to my death because there was nothing else left to do. But it never came; instead, Katniss did. I think she must be here somewhere too, but then I realize I don't know if it's been hours, days, or weeks since the Games. I look down at my body for some indication of the passage of time and see that the scars and bruises are all gone. Is that what the Capitol wants? No visual reminders of what they did to us in the arena, just a picture perfect happy ending? So they can pretend that someone like me can survive something like _that _and ever be whole again? They can take my outer scars, but inside, the damage is done.

I examine my hands and arms first, all immaculate. Even the scar where I had second degree burns from our bread oven is gone. Then I remember where Cato slashed my leg open, and later, where one of the wolf mutts took a chunk of my calf. Surely they couldn't completely erase such an injury. I lift the sheet and expect to find a satisfying scar, some real indication that it all happened and wasn't just a nightmare, but what I find is so much worse than that. My right leg stops just above the knee.

I try hard to feel some appropriate emotion like sadness or devastation at the loss of my leg. Probably, I should cry. But like my flesh, they have taken part of my humanity, and I can no longer muster these feelings of self pity, only anger.

"Peeta?"

The white door in the white wall has slid open, and Haymitch walks in. Even his rumpled gray shirt is an improvement in this place.

"How is Katniss?" I ask.

"Fine, fine. She's resting in her room on another floor," Haymitch tells me. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding.

"Peeta, darling! It's so good to see you awake!" I never thought I would be happy to see Effie's pink wig, but there is something satisfying about seeing it bounce through the doorway, even if it does look ridiculous.

"When can I get out?" I ask no one in particular.

"You'll be back on your feet before you know it," Effie says evasively. She doesn't seem to realize what she has said. No, I will never be back on my feet, not literally, not "feet," plural as I only have one now.

"Let's get Dr. Goodrich in to explain the details for you," she adds, and before I can ask what she means, she disappears back into the white hallway.

A minute later, she bustles back through the door with a tall, slim woman in a white lab coat.

"Good evening, Mr. Mellark. I'm Dr. Goodrich," she says with a firm handshake.

"So, let's get down to business. Ms. Trinket says you're interested in getting out of this bed. The quicker you can get back on your feet, the quicker you can be released," she explains. And there it is again, that stupid saying. But then she motions at something that I didn't see in the corner, and I realize maybe it's more literal than I realized.

Resting in the corner of the room is a metal contraption with a shoe attached at one end. My new leg. Next to it, a thin silver cane.

"Shall we try it out?" Dr. Goodrich asks.

I answer by pulling the sheets back and exposing what's left of my leg. In fifteen minutes, Dr. Goodrich has shown me how to attach the leg and made a few last minute adjustments to ensure the best fit. It feels icy cold and foreign against my body and looks grotesque in contrast with my now eerily flawless skin. Looking down at it, I have the strange urge to sketch it on paper.

"Well, what do you think?" Dr Goodrich asks. At the foot of the bed, Effie looks at me with a hopeful smile, and Haymitch pretends to look out the window, even though the blinds are still drawn shut.

"It's perfect," I say, and the faintest smile graces my lips as I know that this cannot be smoothed away with cosmetics and enhancements, that every time I limp across a stage, the masses will be reminded of what the Capitol is capable of, and that nothing comes without a price.


End file.
